Poems

When winds are raging o'er the upper ocean, And billows wild contend with angry roar, 'T is said, far down, beneath the wild commotion, That peaceful stillness reigneth evermore. Far, far beneath, the noisy tempest dieth, And silver waves chime ever peacefully, And no rude storm, how fierce soe'er it flieth, Disturbs the Sabbath of that deeper sea.

Midsummer gladness, In light; Midsummer sadness, In blight; Sadness and sorrow, In wrong. Gladness we borrow, And song, If the heart, pure in Itself, Seeks for the Truth, not For pelf.

The flower of the Vine is but a little thing, The least part of its life. You scarce could tell It ever had a flower.

Lying down in pain, Rising up in joy! What a boon has come To my darling boy. Dreams of terror's night, Fleeing from his thought; This the blissful change, In one hour wrought.

I thank Thee, oh God, for the glorious light That has shown us the Truth and dispelled the dark night; I thank Thee for Jesus, his words I would cite: "Your nets you must cast on the side of the right. " I thank Thee for her who divided the sea, And showed me the way to be happy and free; For I know that the way she is leading must be The way I must follow, to come unto Thee.

Borne in upon my mind this restful thought, Amid the whirl and chaos, error-wrought, That, come what may, In night or day, Slowly or fast, Nothing but Truth can last. " But what is false? "I cried, "and what is true? " Then came the answer back, so plain I knew: " Naught 's true but Love! Since God above Is Love and Light, Who seeks, shall find the right.

A nation's strife; a people's life! Freedom at length, through holy strength! Soon comes the Wrong, and holdeth strong; But Right comes last, and standeth fast. Without the Truth, from Heaven's ruth, Not right nor free, can mortals be.

On backward-looking son of time! The new is old, the old is new,— The cycle of a change sublime Still sweeping through. Take heart! The Master builds again; A charmed life old Goodness hath.

July —for you the songs are sung By birds the leafy trees among; With merry carolings they wake The meadows at the morning's break, And through the day the lisping breeze Is woven with their treetop glees. For you, the prattling, pebbly brooks Are full of tales like story-books.

But the Vine standeth out amid the frost; And after all, hath only this grace left, That it endures, in long, lone stedfastness, The winter through; and next year blooms again,— Not bitter for the torment undergone, Not barren for the fulness yielded up,— As fair and fruitful towards the sacrifice, As if no touch had ever come to it, But the soft airs of heaven and dews of earth; And so fulfils itself in love once more. KING.